


Serendipity

by orphan_account



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But not at all clueless, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, FBI Agent Sam Winchester, Hunter Dean, M/M, Meet-Cute, Sam Winchester got a normal life, Supernatural Elements, Timeline What Timeline, To a point, Virgin Spencer, kind of, with Criminal Minds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-25 09:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12527728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sam Winchester has been running into Spencer Reid since college, and through a series of miscommunications and missed connections, they've lost touch over and over again.With Dean back from Hell, an angel on his shoulder and a holy order to avert a hostile takeover from an unknown enemy, Sam needs to use his newfound position within the BAU to track down specific 'omens' that will help his brother identify and take down the big bad. But Heaven is keeping secrets, and Sam can't seem to catch a break, especially when he meets his new teammates, and sees a familiar face among them.One time's just happenstance. Two times? Unlikely coincidence. But three times?That's serendipity.





	1. Prologue: The Last Eleven Years

**Author's Note:**

> I have a bit of an affinity for odd crossovers, with even stranger pairings. But they take hold, and I'm a slave to them apparently, until they're written, so... welcome to my strange Criminal Minds/Supernatural brainchild! I hope you enjoy, stay tuned for updates!
> 
> PS. If anyone is reading What a Long Road Home, the epilogue is coming, I promise! This fic just took hold, and wouldn't let me go!!

Sam Winchester didn’t give much thought to Spencer Reid.

They met for the first time when Spencer was twelve and Sam was eighteen, studying in the same program at Stanford, with two very different ambitions. Spencer was a genius, working towards two bachelor’s degrees at once, and he was dedicated, never wavering from his desire to learn everything he possibly could. Sam was there to learn as well, but only for what he could gain from it. He was there to work hard, to graduate and move on, needing to find his way to stability and a normal life, far away from the things he knew lurked in the dark. Sam spoke to Spencer on occasion, worked with him on projects, and stood up for him when he could, whenever he spotted someone tormenting or bullying the poor boy, who’d been thrown in with the wolves before he’d even hit puberty. He thought Spencer was brilliant, and found he was never bored when he spoke with him; he always managed to surprise. But other than that, Sam never thought much about Spencer.

A few nights after he graduated, Dean swung by his house in the middle of the night. Said Dad was on a hunting trip, and hadn’t been back in a few days. Said Sam would be back in time for his law school interviews, and that it would be a cake walk. Dean said a lot of things, and none of them were true. Jessica died, as did their father. They killed Azazel, stopped the gates of hell from opening, but Dean still sold his soul to bring Sam back from the dead, and there was nothing to be done for it (though, not for a lack of trying). By the time it was all said and done, Dean was gone, too. After a year spent grieving at Bobby's, and with some prodding from Bobby and Ellen, Sam decided it was time to get back to his real life. He packed up his shit, left the Impala in Bobby's care and headed to Boston, having been accepted to Harvard Law. He changed his last name from Winchester to Singer, cutting ties to his past life and throwing up a legal roadblock, just in case anyone recognized his family name and decided to go digging. And, through all the turmoil, Sam never once thought of Spencer.

Until one day, a cold day in late November, when the leaves had all turned, half fallen on the sidewalk, half clinging to branches with their dying grasp. Sam was bundled in his fall jacket, scarf wrapped around his cheeks as he ducked into Darwin’s, the coffee shop near campus, on his way to a lecture. In his haste to get inside so he could warm up, he bumped into the back of a man standing in front of him, waiting in line to order. He muttered a hasty apology, expecting no response at all, when the stranger whirled around at the sound of his voice, and Sam saw he was no stranger at all.

He was Spencer Reid.

He was nineteen, and a far cry from the scrawny fifteen year old in Sam’s graduating class. He was tall (not as tall as Sam), and though he was still waiflike, he had filled out just enough that it suited him. He was bundled up tight, and Sam saw with a burst of uncanny affection that he was still fond of those garish pleated pants he always used to wear, despite how warm it had been at Stanford. Seemingly as shocked as Sam was to find him there, Spencer stammered out a greeting, and through his bright expression Sam caught a glimpse of the dark bags underneath his warm eyes. He looked tired, and kind of miserable, like something was keeping him up at night. He was carrying a stack of files under his arm, his hands jittery from lack of caffeine, and Sam recognized the look of a man who was trying to bury his emotions in his work.

If anyone could relate, it would be Sam Winchester.

Neither one made any mention of it, though. Instead, Sam forgot all about his lecture, and Spencer rescheduled his meeting. They found a table in a quiet corner near the window, the chill from the glass a comfortable contrast to the warmth of the shop, and Sam made a point to ask why a MIT doctoral student would go all the way to the Harvard Campus for coffee. Spencer surprised him, as he always used to, by looking at Sam like he was crazy, insisting it was the best coffee in Boston. His deadpan delivery, the way he pursed his lips, and how the sunlight filtering through the window caught hints of green in his eyes sent Sam’s heart fluttering in his chest like a cracked-out hummingbird. Just like that, Sam was smitten, his blood thrumming through his veins in a way it hadn’t since he met Jessica, and it terrified him. They spent four hours in that coffee shop, talking about everything and nothing, going through scant details of the past few years before delving into lectures they were attending, Spencer’s doctorate thesis, and it was just _so_ easy. It was almost frightening how easy it was, how much he liked this kid, and it was as if he had morphed into an awkward teenager all over again, mooning nervously over his crush. When they parted ways, Spencer gave Sam his number, and they agreed they would catch up. But that familiar panic, that nagging voice which reminded him of everyone he loved who had ever been hurt, of the fate that met those he let himself get attached to, resounded in the back of his mind, and Spencer’s number went into Sam’s wallet, forgotten. Sam stopped going to Darwin’s, and he didn’t let himself think much of Spencer, after that.

Sam tried dating a few girls, and some guys too, but they didn’t do anything for him. No matter who they were, they were no match to the superpowered brain of Spencer Reid. His lightening wit, his encyclopedic knowledge of everything under the sun… his sweet smile and his doll-like features. No matter who he was with, Sam couldn’t keep from wishing they were tall and lithe, clad in far too much tweed, pulling at their sleeves with thin fingers as they recited Star Trek episodes from memory. He kicked himself almost constantly for never calling Spencer back. With time to rationalize and heal, he attempted to reconcile the fact his loved ones died because of horrible circumstance, and nothing more. Though he could never banish the guilt and he would always blame himself, he could at least see that normalcy required some degree of forgiveness, and he wished he wasn't so bent on punishing himself. Maybe then, he could have been happy, possibly even with Spencer. Often, on nights when he felt especially lonely, he would pull that folded, faded receipt with Spencer’s number on it (written in Roman numerals, like he was somehow testing to see if Sam was worthy), and fantasize about calling him. But it had been too long, and he didn’t have an excuse that he was willing to share. So, Sam stopped dating, and soon he found he could finally stop thinking about Spencer Reid.

He graduated from Harvard with his J.D., and went on to Yale for his L.L.M. Bobby, Ellen and Jo had come to his graduation, and they’d celebrated his acceptance with him at a bar in Sioux Falls, streamers and all, courtesy of Jo. Sam had been in Connecticut for a week, and he’d already sussed out the best cup of coffee in New Haven. The only thing was, East Rock Coffee was on the other side of town from his campus, a twenty-minute bus ride from school, and a fifteen-minute ride from his tiny apartment. However, he had long since learned, from a man he didn’t think much about those days, that nowhere is too far to go for good coffee.

Strolling into the shop as if it were any other day, empty mug in one hand and his briefcase in the other, Sam had sidled up to the counter, smiling at the woman behind it as he ordered. He slid off to the side, waiting for her to pour his black dark roast, when he heard a familiar voice that he hadn’t heard in a very long time. He looked up in disbelief, inhaling sharply when he saw Spencer Reid standing at the counter, ordering the same ridiculous, sugary concoction he had when they last ran into each other, all those years ago. Before he could stop himself, he called Spencer’s name, and the look of unabashed shock on the young doctor’s face would have been laughable, were Sam not certain he looked just the same. Spencer, eyes wide and wary, said hello and asked him what he was doing there, apparently thinking that two chance meetings were enough for one lifetime. Sam took it in stride, trying to still his trembling grip around his coffee cup, expressing his disbelief that they just happened to be in the same school, at the same city, at the same time, _again_.

He called it serendipity. Spencer called it an improbable coincidence, and Sam was smitten all over again, like no time has passed.

They caught up once more, this time striking a common bond over his newfound willingness to travel halfway across the city for the best coffee in New Haven, and Sam Winchester dove headfirst into the Spencer Reid enigma. He listened to Spencer as he told him about the third PhD he was pursuing, as well as his assisting one of their guest lecturers, Jason Gideon, though he wouldn’t go into specifics. Spencer was impressed by Sam’s decision to pursue his L.L.M, thinking he wanted to get his JD and get out, as was his plan the last he saw him, and Sam had the good graces to look bashful as he admitted Spencer was a big motivating factor towards his higher education. By the end of it, Spencer didn’t seem fazed by the fact that Sam had never called him like he said he was going to back in Boston, and every second Sam spent with him didn’t seem like enough. So, working up the courage he could have used three years ago, Sam stopped Spencer as he was about to walk down the street, having already bid him goodbye, and asked if he would like to grab dinner with him sometime.

Spencer smiled widely as he agreed, and Sam was so elated he felt as though he might burst.

That was, until he was parked in front of Spencer’s charming walk-up apartment a week later, in a jacket and tie and sweating profusely, gripping the steering wheel as he waited for Spencer to come out and join him. It was the most nervous he had been for a date in ages, and he had to take a few calming breaths, reminding himself that it was one night. Dinner and drinks. No pressure, just Spencer’s big, beautiful brain to contend with, one on one, with nothing to save him from making himself look like a jackass should the occasion arise. He was considering bailing, peeling out of the driveway, and not stopping until he was crossed state lines, when Spencer opened the door, dressed just as stuffily as he always did, grinning cutely and waving when he spotted Sam in the drive.

And just like that, his nerves disappeared.

They bailed on dinner, arriving at the restaurant and finding it far too busy, noisy and ritzy, and instead they stopped for dim sum at a quaint little hole in the wall down the street from Sam’s place. They chatted over pork buns and dumplings, Sam poking fun at Spencer for using a fork, as Spencer came right back at him for eating enough to feed five normal sized people. It was comfortable, easy, like they hadn’t lost any time in between meetings. They were out the door at eleven and down the road to a café, where they drank lattes and closed out the shop. Then, with drinks in hand, they wandered the city until three, sat by the water until four, and by the time Sam finally got Spencer home, the sun was already peaking above the buildings.

It was chilly, so early in the morning as he stood on the steps of Spencer’s apartment, waiting until Spencer had fished his keys out of his bag, and a thin sheen of dew clung to the wrought iron railing that Sam was leaning against. The cold nipped at their skin, the tip of Spencer's nose and his cheeks flushed pink, and before Sam could think about what he was doing, he ducked in close, cupping Spencer’s frozen cheeks and kissing him softly on the lips. Spencer gasped and dropped his keys, the overloaded ring clattering off the cement steps, and for a moment Sam thought that maybe he had made a mistake. Maybe Spencer wasn’t interested in him, and maybe he’d misread his friendliness for attraction, but then… Spencer’s hands brushed gingerly along the lapels of Sam’s coat, growing bolder as he stroked up Sam’s chest, and lacing his fingers behind Sam’s neck Spencer kissed him back, his lips sliding sweetly against Sam’s.

Though it was only a short, chaste kiss, it felt like flight. Sam was floating when he pulled away, pride and affection swelling inside of him at the dazed, wistful look in Spencer’s eyes. The doctor bit his lip, rolling the plump flesh between his teeth as he met Sam’s gaze, his fingers still knotted in the back of Sam’s jacket, and not for the first time, Sam wished he knew what Spencer was thinking. His expression was unreadable as he let loose Sam’s coat, crouching down to pick up his keys and murmuring a small thank you to Sam as he turned and unlocked his front door. That ever-present nervousness began to spike when Spencer paused, the door half open, and turned back to Sam, but it was banished when Spencer smiled shyly, his cheeks burning red now and not from the cold, as he told Sam he would call him. The door closed behind him, and Sam could have skipped back to his car were it not for his pride.

A week passed, and Sam didn’t hear from Spencer. He kept going to East Rock Coffee, thinking he might see him there, but he never did.

Another week, and Sam started thinking that maybe he should call Spencer instead. But no matter how long he stared at his number, still on that crumpled up piece of receipt in his wallet, he couldn’t work up the guts to hit dial.

After the third week, Sam finally gave up hope, getting the message loud and clear. Spencer wasn’t interested. Sam had felt something, Spencer hadn’t, and that was fine. It stung, a lot, that he would just disappear on Sam the way he did, but Sam figured he’d done the same thing to Spencer three years ago, so, in a roundabout way, this was probably his karmic comeuppance.

Only this time, he couldn’t ignore how much it hurt not to think of Spencer Reid.

He didn’t have long to dwell on it, though. Two days of moping later, and there was a knock at his front door. Sam opened it to find Dean standing there, battered, bruised and covered in dirt—but very much alive.

It was angels, his brother said. Something big afoot, and Sam was treated to a taste of that something big as he was dragged out to a hunt in Virginia. He met Castiel, the aloof angel in a trench coat who pulled his brother out of Hell, apparently in preparation for some inevitable battle. After the hunt, when Sam offered his permanent assistance, both of them told him no. It was Dean’s fight, according to Cas, wiping the last dregs of demons from the face of the earth, and helping to bolster the forces of Heaven against some greater evil. Dean didn’t seem all that convinced, but he knew there were people to save, and he was willing to participate in Castiel’s plans so long as it kept them safe. He didn’t want to drag Sam back into hunting, not when he’d gotten out. He was so proud, he said, even though he was sitting in Sam’s shitty bachelor apartment, amidst pizza boxes and old beer bottles, and for the first time in his life, Dean sounded sincere in his praise. Hell had changed his brother; he was colder, more calculating, but in this, he was sincere.

There had to be more that Sam could do, he argued, and Castiel flitted off with a roll of his eyes, clearly unimpressed with Sam’s lack of understanding. Dean assured him that was just his personality, and that, believe it or not, Castiel was the warmest and fuzziest of all the angel’s he had met. He also made Sam promise not to hunt again. “It’s too late for me,” Dean said softly, holding up a hand when Sam tried to interrupt, “it always has been. But not for you.”

Sam wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Hours of pleading, arguing, yelling, and finally Dean gave in. If you want to help, he had said, then find a way to give me a leg up in this fight, and keep me off the grid. Apparently, what the angels were looking for couldn’t be traced on a police radio or in the papers. It was higher up, government shit, that Dean could never seem to get his hands on until it was too late. If Sam could manage to make it to a position of authority, with a criminal focus, _then_ Dean might accept his help, but only if he kept his nose clean.

That was how Sam ended up moving to Quantico, months later, as an attorney for the FBI. He stopped off at East Rock, one last time before he left, grabbing a coffee to go and sitting in one of the armchairs, waiting. He stayed there far longer than he meant to, and by the time he left, his eyes were heavy, his back aching from sitting, but his heart was light. He left Spencer behind in that coffee shop, and after a long night’s rest, he hopped in his station wagon and drove to Virginia.

A few years later, and he was standing in the office of a stern looking man, interviewing for a position that would give him the resources to finally, _finally_ be of some help to his brother. As he sat across the desk from a man who looked as if he could see into his soul, Sam kept his head on straight, focussing on his goal. Get into the Behavioural Analysis Unit, keep his nose to the ground, and the second he notices anything even the tiniest bit out of place, the smallest detail that could point to Heaven’s secretive larger game, he passes it on to Dean and Castiel.

Sam stood up with a start when Aaron Hotchner rose from behind his desk, his hand held out in front of him. As Sam shook his hand, Hotch nodded and said, “Agent Singer, welcome to the BAU.”

And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, Sam didn’t give much thought to Spencer Reid.


	2. “Coincidence” was so Two Years Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos! As it is a crossover (and my first foray into the Criminal Minds fandom), the timeline may be a little wonky, but hopefully I can make it work ;) Here goes chapter two, mostly introductory, just setting the stage. The next chapter will be a case fic, so I hope you enjoy!

Sam cleared his throat a total of five times since he stepped into the FBI Academy, and now the woman standing next to him in the elevator was looking at him like he was Typhoid Mary, but he couldn’t help himself as he coughed into his fist a sixth time. It was a nervous tic, one that he found out he had during his unfortunate externship clinics, and a point of contention between him and every lawyer he worked with during his first years at Harvard. All the mindfulness and meditation in the world couldn’t rid him of it then, and trying to regulate his breathing certainly wasn’t helping now.

As he loosened his tie with trembling, sweaty fingers, the woman hopped off at the third floor, despite pressing twelve when she got in. Sam managed to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirrored walls of the elevator, and man, he didn’t blame her at all. He was a wreck; a gigantic, sweaty wreck. His hair was mussed from running his hands through it, his face was unnaturally pale, and he had a nasty case of flop sweat going on that made him look like he was battling a fever. He tried to tame the rats nest on his head, wiping the sweat from his brow before the elevator doors dinged open again, and he had to compose himself in the face of the man and woman who just stepped in.

He didn’t understand what it was about this place that was stressing him out so much. He’d practically lived there during his training, but since, the stalwart, nondescript building had been the furthest thing from his mind. All his effort for the past two years, his nights of tireless work and grueling hours spent schmoozing with his higher-ups, were to get him to this point: his first day on job at the BAU. But now that he was here, his confidence had seemingly evaporated. The smooth talker that had convinced SSA Aaron Hotchner to let a rookie agent with no field experience outside of his training, and only a year as FBI executive attorney join the Behavioural Analysis Unit was gone the second he stepped through those doors. And for some reason, in his place was the same edgy kid who felt uncomfortable in monkey suits, who stammered and choked through his clinicals, and got gassy was he was nervous.

“First day?”

Sam looked up with a start at the blonde woman beside him, her head tilted sweetly and a bemused smile curling at her lips as he processed her question. “Uh, yeah,” he stammered, curling his fingers into fists at his sides to keep from awkwardly rubbing at his neck. He smiled tightly, and hoped he wasn’t coming off as rude, but she didn’t seem to mind. Instead, she just grinned wider, reaching across the enclosed space and patting him on the upper arm. “It gets better,” she assured him, “we don’t bite.”

“Depends on the department,” her friend corrected her, crossing his arms over his chest with a good-natured laugh, “if you’re headed to Counterintelligence, you’re in for a treat.”

“Morgan, don’t scare him,” the blonde woman reprimanded playfully, swatting at him with the slim stack of files she held in her hand. She seemed to think on it a moment, pursing her lips before turning back to Sam, clarifying, “You’re not, right?”

“Not what?” Sam asked, barely following.

She quirked a thin, arched brow, “In Counterintelligence.”

“No,” Sam said, biting the inside of his cheek.

She let out a little sigh of relief. “Oh good,” she said, chuckling to herself, “because Morgan’s right, they’re all hard asses up there.”

The elevator doors dinged open on the tenth floor, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief, the light flooding in from reception guiding him off the elevator and away from a conversation he wasn’t prepared for. “Good luck!” the woman called from behind him, and Sam shot a small smile over his shoulder as he thanked her, fixing his tie and walking determinedly towards Agent Hotchner’s familiar office.

Steeling himself, Sam straightened his jacket and knocked on the door frame, hearing papers rustling on the other side of the half-opened door. “Come in,” Agent Hotchner called, and Sam pushed the door open gently, watching his new boss’ eyes light with recognition as he stood up from his desk, holding out his hand in greeting, “Agent Singer, I’m sorry, I meant to meet you downstairs, but it seems I lost track of time. Did you find us alright?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sam said, shaking Hotchner’s hand confidently, glad he thought to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants before stepping through the door, “I remember this place from training, it was mostly muscle memory. And please, call me Sam.”

“Good,” Hotchner hummed, gesturing for Sam to take a seat at his desk, “but you’ll have to excuse me, and the other agents, if we refer to you as Singer.” He sat as well, his posture stiff, “it’s habit to work on a last name basis here.”

“Makes sense,” Sam acquiesced with a nod, lacing his fingers together in his lap, for lack of something to do with them, “keeps things professional.” He took a deep breath, trying to school his expression so as not to let on how terrified he was, and said, “I wanted to thank you again for hiring me on, sir. I know you took a chance on me, and I promise you won’t regret it.”

“Hotch,” his boss corrected, leaning forwards on his desk as Sam took a moment to realise he was telling him what to call him. When Sam met his studious gaze, his heart skipped to double time, beating almost in his throat and so loud he was amazed Hotch couldn’t hear it. The rebellious part of his brain was telling him he was too far out of his element, that he was a hunter turned lawyer, not an FBI agent, regardless of what the certificate on the wall of his home office said. The only reason he graduated from the academy was due to the military-esque training his dad put him through when he was a kid, and his lengthy stay in the academic world. He had never even practised as a lawyer, outside of the FBI, and now he had tossed himself into the shark tank, with renowned profilers who catch serial killers for a living.

Hotch sussed out his nerves quick, catching his attention by calling his name. Sam pursed his lips, looking wide eyed at his new boss, suddenly embarrassed on top of anxious, to have been caught in a reverie only seconds into his first day. “It’s understandable to be nervous,” Hotch said coolly, and the even timbre of his voice seemed to soothe Sam’s reluctant nerves, “but I hired you for a reason. Everyone on this team started somewhere different, we’re not all cut from the same cloth. SSA Derek Morgan worked his way up through the Chicago Police department. JJ came to us directly from Georgetown. Our Technical Analyst was recruited under special circumstances, and I myself started right where you did, as an attorney. Our differences are what make us an effective team, and I hired you because you bring something to the table that no one else here, has.”

“I don’t suppose you can tell me what that something is?” Sam joked, half-heartedly.

“Would you believe me if I told you I haven’t figured it out yet?” Hotch said, and Sam chuckled, before realizing this man wasn’t joking. “Call it a gut instinct, but I know you have something to offer, something different,” he clarified, as Sam gulped, his nerves skyrocketing once again, “and when I first started here, that was all my unit chief had on me, too. So, I _am_ giving you a chance Agent Singer, but it is with the utmost confidence. It’s my job to read people, remember? Or, I guess I should say, _our_ job?”

Sam couldn’t help but smile at that. “So,” he said, breaking them off topic as he clapped his hands down on his knees, “when do I get to meet the team?”

And to his amazement, Agent Hotchner actually cracked a smile.

Without another word, Hotch stood up and gestured to the door, walking Sam out of his office before leading him to the meeting room. On the way, he called out across the floor for the members of his team, and Sam heard chairs squeaking, papers rustling and general murmuring as a small group broke off from the pack in the bullpen, following behind them.

The meeting room was fairly large, open and windowed, scattered with white boards, cork boards and a projection screen, all surrounding a round, spotless table. “It’s not usually this clean,” a familiar voice said to him, and when Sam turned, he found himself face to face with the kind woman from the elevator, “we don’t have a case right now, or it would look like a whirlwind ran through here.”

“Agent Singer, this is our communications liaison, SA Jennifer Jareau,” Hotch introduced, though Jennifer shook her head when she shook Sam’s hand, correcting him.

“Call me JJ,” she said as she looked him over with a coy smile, “I’m glad to see we haven’t scared you off yet. You look much more relaxed than you did earlier.”

“You’ve already met?” Hotch asked.

“In the elevator,” the bald man he met earlier said, reaching out his hand to Sam, who took it gladly, “Name’s Derek Morgan.” He gestured over his shoulder at an older man that Sam recognized as Jason Gideon, immediately going to shake his hand, before turning his attention to another young woman, whom Morgan introduced as, “SSA Elle Greenaway.”

Elle smiled tightly as she shook Sam’s hand, and in a lower than normal voice said, “Don’t worry, I’m new, too.”

“Well, we should get started,” Hotch said, breaking up the group huddled by the door and walking around the table, “though it seems we’re one short. Where’s Reid?”

Sam had been in the middle of sitting down at the table when Hotch asked his question, and he jolted in surprise, jerking backwards so hard that the almost missed the chair. He saved himself, just barely, slamming his hand on to the edge of the table and steadying himself in his seat, and in the process, he startled every other person in the room. Morgan laughed, slapping Sam on the shoulder as he walked passed, saying, “Man, you're kind of jumpy, huh?”

“I, uh—” Sam cleared his throat for the seventh time, “First day jitters. I promise I’m not usually this much of a klutz.” He deflected the question effortlessly, but the name Hotch had spoken stuck with him. It couldn’t be him, Sam assured himself, immediately feeling stupid for having such a visceral reaction to a fairly common last name. There was no way this Agent Reid was _his_ Spencer Reid; it was completely improbable.

“Hey, keep it up,” Morgan said, flopping into one of the chairs beside him with a grin, “maybe you’ll give pretty boy a run for his money. He’s fairly clumsy too.”

Sam laughed along with him, running a hand through his hair and pushing his bangs out of his face bashfully, when Hotch looked at the clock with a frown. “It’s not like him to be late,” he mused, “but I don’t want to hold you all up longer than we need to. Singer,” Sam looked up sharply, “care to tell us a little about yourself?”

“Sure, of course,” Sam coughed into his fist, nervous tic total now standing at a nice, rounded eight, “My name’s Sam Singer. I was born in Kansas, but I didn’t live there for long. Moved around my whole life, so I know this country like the back of my hand. I have my bachelors in Criminology from Stanford, and when I graduated I went on to get my JD at Harvard Law, and my Masters at Yale. I’ve been working with the Bureau for just about two years now as an executive attorney, but criminal psychology has always been a passion of mine, so the BAU was the next logical step.”

As he spoke, he gained in confidence, and seeing everyone spread out around the table was somehow settling his nerves. These weren’t strangers anymore, he knew their names and faces, and they all seemed nice enough. They were people, not faceless entities, and for the first time since he walked in the building that morning, he could feel the anxiety that had been plaguing drift from his body, seeping out of his pores as he sank comfortably back in his chair.

“Stanford _and_ Yale,” Gideon said, staring at Sam curiously, “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m, uh—” cough number nine, “Twenty-nine, sir.”

“Twenty-nine… I wonder,” JJ said softly, biting thoughtfully at her thumbnail, “Did you happen to know someone named—”

The door to the meeting room slammed open, and a veritable whirlwind of a person burst through it.

“Reid, good of you to join us,” Hotch said drolly, though not without humor, “you just missed Agent Singer’s introduction.”

“I’m so sorry,” Reid stammered, and Sam’s breath hitched in his throat, “The train was late, and then I spilt coffee on myself, and I had to go home and change, I promise it won’t—”

“ _Spencer_?” Sam asked pointedly, staring wide eyed at the frazzled man at the head of the table, who was currently untangling his arms from inside his heavy, wool coat. Sam huffed and shook his head, his gaze snapping back and forth between Hotch and Spencer, “ _Spencer_ Reid?”

He thought he must have been seeing things (and hearing things), as he gaped at this _Agent_ Reid. He sure _looked_ like Spencer: tall and thin, with big, brown bedroom eyes and doll-like features, though this Reid at least tried to tame his hair. They even dressed alike, this Reid wearing those same pleated pants that Spencer had always been fond of, an oversized sweater on top of a collared shirt and converse sneakers, under which Sam was certain he’d find odd patterned socks. And his _voice_ , Sam could pick that voice out of crowd, and had before, but it couldn’t be him. That was too much of a coincidence, and really, what were the chances?

But any and all doubt he had (as tenuous as it might have been) was shattered at the look of frantic recognition on Spencer’s face. The young man looked terrified, surprised and angry, all wrapped up in a delicious combination that Sam was at once intrigued and mortified by. He couldn’t say that he felt any different than Spencer either, as his heart pounded away in his chest and his stomach dropped down to the floor.

Three times. Three separate times in his life, Sam had run into Spencer, and had been completely unaware. “Jesus Christ, Spencer, what are the odds?” Sam breathed, smiling incredulously, because what else could he do?

“0.0024 percent,” Spencer said, his brow furrowing, “though that would just account for the first time, the closest I could get including all of them be…” he thought for a moment, his tongue pushing at his lower lip, “7.4e-4.”

Sam should have expected Spencer to figure out the percentage of the likelihood of their random meetings.

“You two _do_ know each other!” JJ said excitedly, “That’s amazing, how—”

“Are you _stalking_ me?” Spencer demanded, finally shrugging his coat off and letting it fall to the floor.

Now _that_ , Sam did not expect.

“Of course not!” Indignancy was not a good look on him, he knew that, but Sam couldn’t help but get his hackles up at the accusation, “How could you even think that?”

“I don’t know, how about because you just keep showing up at random places, at random points in my life?” Spencer scoffed, tapping off on his fingers as he counted, “The football field at Stanford, Darwin’s in Boston, East Rock Coffee, and now at my job. What would you think, if I conveniently showed up at your workplace after sporadically running into you for the past ten years?”

“I told you what I thought about it in New Haven,” Sam said as he stood up from the table, “And technically, by that logic, I could assume _you’ve_ been the one stalking _me_.”

“Yeah, well it’s not fate or coincidence, Sam, because it’s completely improbable!” Raising his voice wasn’t something Reid made a habit of, and the team stared on in stunned silence, an awkward tension radiating from every one of them. Sam was suddenly acutely aware of their audience, though Spencer didn’t seem to notice as he rambled on, his hands flying in wild, emphatic gestures as he childishly declared, “And I got here first!”

Hotch, clearly having seen enough, stood up from the table. “Reid,” he said succinctly, and any choice words Spencer had for Sam died on his tongue as he cowed before his boss, Sam hot on his heels when Hotch turned to him, “Singer. My office, _now_.”

The room was uncomfortably silent as Spencer crouched to pick up his coat and bag, slouching out of the meeting room like a kicked puppy, head hung low and tail between its legs. Morgan was hovering on the cusp of laughter, not knowing where to even begin after that exchange. He had seen Spencer get heated before, but what he just witnessed was off the cuff, balls to the wall, fanatically _furious_ , and boy-wonder almost never lost his cool like that.

“What the hell was that?” Elle asked, once Sam walked out of the room and the door had closed behind him.

“I think they know each other,” Morgan said, shrugging his shoulders, “and I don’t think Reid likes him movin’ in on his territory.”

“I recognize Sam, actually. I saw him a few times when I guest lectured at Yale, and he’s a hard guy to miss,” Gideon spoke up, unusually intrigued and gnawing on the cap of one of his pens, “Bright kid. Self-made, if I remember correctly. Has no family that I know of, but got a full ride to Stanford when he was seventeen, and just kept working his way up from there. I think Spencer talked about him a bit for a few weeks, back in the day, but then just… stopped. I figured they were just acquaintances, so I didn’t care to ask.”

JJ gasped, one hand coming up to cover her mouth as he stared at the door. “No way,” she murmured, a small smile twisting at the corners of her lips, and Elle reached over, giving her a little shove as she told her to spill. “That’s Sam Singer,” JJ said simply, and shook her head when she was faced with a room full of blank looks, “That’s ‘I-didn’t-know-it-was-a-date’ Sam Singer!”

“You’re gonna need to elaborate a little, JJ,” Morgan said, and Elle waved her hand at JJ, urging her on.

“When Spence and I went to the Redskins game for his birthday, I got him talking about dating,” JJ said, settling back in her chair, “He told me he’d only ever been on one date in his life, and he hadn’t even realized it _was_ a date until the guy kissed him.” She gestured to the door, grinning, “ _That’s_ the guy!”

“Huh,” Morgan ran a hand over his mouth, “I didn’t know he liked guys.”

“I don’t think Spence even knew he did, till this guy took him on a surprise date and kissed him,” JJ leaned her head in her hand, her elbow resting on the table as she said wistfully, “and I don’t know what happened, but I know they never talked again after.”

“Poor Spencer,” Elle said softly, “this has to be awkward.”

“Poor Spencer? Poor Sam!” Morgan laughed, standing up from his chair, “The guy came in here this morning already sweating bullets cause he was so nervous about starting a new job, and now _this_? Damn, that’s gotta suck.”

“Here’s hoping they can work it out before we get a case,” JJ said with a sigh, as the rest of them nodded their agreement.

Down the hall, Hotch had led Spencer and Sam to his office, ordering them to “Talk it out,” as he hovered in the doorway, “and put it to bed. You have ten minutes, then you get to convince my why I shouldn’t discipline both of you for the scene you just caused.”

Spencer was a jittery wreck, dropping his coat and bag in one of the office chairs by Hotch’s desk with shaking hands, but he managed to nod when Hotch looked to him for confirmation. Sam did the same, leaning back against the bookcase on the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He almost looked taller, Spencer mused, and he still did that thing where he hunched forward, trying to compensate for being the tallest man in the room by making himself appear smaller. His hair was longer, curling around his ears and he’d filled out even more since the last time Spencer saw him, if that were even possible, his shoulders straining against the fabric of his suit jacket, that was just a touch too small for him.

He was still beautiful, tall and broad with a sharp, strong jaw, and all that realization did was piss Spencer off more. The minute Hotch closed the door, and Spencer’s anxiety bubbled over once again, and he hissed, “Why are you here, Sam?”

“Not stalking you, for one,” Sam said drolly, pulling one of the bitchiest faces Spencer had ever seen and rolling his eyes. When Spencer didn’t say anything, Sam huffed, throwing his hands up in defeat. “What do you want me to say, Spence? I got a job at the FBI a year ago, and when I heard the BAU had a position open, I took it. The pay was better, it’d get me off my ass and into the field, and I’d actually have the chance to help people before the damage was done.”

“I thought you wanted your own practice?” Spencer asked, studying Sam’s face intently, his chest clenching uncomfortably as the humiliated misery in Sam’s eyes took the wind out of his sails, “Why would you join the FBI?”

“You never saw me during my clinicals.” Sam said it with a small smile, but his voice dropped in tone and he looked away from Spencer as he spoke, clearly embarrassed, “I have a hard time with public speaking, it’s part of the reason why I decided to get my Masters. I was sort of delaying the inevitable. Working for the FBI allowed me to focus more on legal research, but like I said, riding a desk just isn’t my thing… and this position would have been perfect.”

“Would have been?” Spencer winced at the implication.

“Well, yeah. You accused me of stalking you and got into a fight with me not even fifteen minutes into my first day on the team,” Sam didn’t say it maliciously, but the truth still stung, and Spencer exhaled sharply as his fuming anger was suddenly blown away, replaced by a persistent, nagging guilt, “I doubt Hotch is going to think I’m the right fit anymore.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Spencer said quickly, leaning back on the edge of Hotch’s desk, “Sam, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that, I was just taken aback. It’s been years since I’ve seen or heard from you, and you have to admit, the way we keep running into each other is…”

“It’s weird,” Sam finished for him, as he tapered off, “and I know what you mean, but think about it. I had your number, this whole time. You’re an academic, you’ve written multiple dissertations, I mean, if I were stalking you, there’d be much easier ways to go about it, right? Why would I go through the trouble of getting a job here, when I could just go to your lectures, or trace your phone?”

He was absolutely right. As amazing as it was, Spencer just hadn’t been _thinking_. He’d seen Sam sitting in that board room, and it was like he had been transported back in time. He’d looked so much like he had in New Haven, when they’d been sitting side by side at the waters edge, the sun just barely peeking about the horizon. Exactly the same as when he’d stolen Spencer’s breath, his higher brain function and his first kiss on the steps of his run down, walk up apartment on that chilly November morning, all those years ago.

Sam still had that effect on him it seemed, and Spencer buried his head in his hands, suddenly overwhelmingly embarrassed by the scene he had just caused in front of their team.

“Hey,” Sam said softly, and Spencer heard him walk closer, stopping right in front of him, “its okay.”

Kind. Sam was still so incredibly _kind_ , and Spencer shook his head sullenly. “I promise I’ll clear things up with Hotch,” he murmured into his palms, “I’ll tell everyone that I overreacted, Sam, I’m so sorry—”

He never got to finish, as strong hands wrapped around his wrists and pulled his hands away from his face. “I know, and I appreciate it,” Sam said, ducking his head to catch Spencer’s eye, “I just want to make sure we can keep things professional, you know?” Spencer nodded, and Sam added, “We may have a history, but—”

“History?” Spencer snatched his hands back, bristling with anxiety once again, his emotions flip flopping at such a breakneck pace, he'd be amazed if he didn't end up with whiplash, “What history?”

Sam scoffed, “Look, it’s not going to do any good to sweep it under the rug.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Spencer said, biting the inside of his cheek.

This was a nightmare, he decided. It had to be a nightmare, there was no way this was real. Not only was Sam _freaking_ Singer going to be working with him in the field at the BAU, Spencer was going to have to address the ill-fated incident, too?

He wanted to curl up in a ball under Hotch’s desk and live there for the rest of his natural life.

There were few moments in Spencer’s life where he had felt as helpless and petrified as he did after that ‘date.’ Sure, it didn’t compare to the trauma of being tied to a goal post naked in front of the entire high school football team, but it ran a close second based on confusion alone. Spencer had an excellent time that night, right up until Sam kissed him. He’d never had a friend he could talk to the way he did with Sam, a man who was intelligent in his own right, worldly, well read and well spoken, but who also made him laugh, and feel his age for once. They had been out all night, from six in the evening until six in the morning, and while Spencer had felt giddy and comfortable, he didn’t make the connection until Sam’s lips descended on his, until Sam’s fingers were tangled in his wind-swept hair.

He didn’t realize until that moment that the warm, fluttering feeling roiling inside of his stomach, was the result of a crush the size of Manhattan.

Spencer had never thought about men like that before. He rarely thought of girls either, if he were being honest. He just wasn’t that kind of a person, and while romantic entanglements seemed attractive at times, he knew through observation that they were more trouble than they were worth. He didn’t have the time, or the desire, and whenever he slipped up and felt lonely, he took the time to remind himself of what he was working for.

He was a perpetual list maker. A constant planner. He would come up with mental lists of pros and cons, support and denial, at least once a day. There was always a decision to be made, always something to be weighed against another, and the order he found by categorizing the endless number of minutiae he absorbed on a daily basis was comforting. Relationships, sex and all of the messy feelings that accompanied them? They usually fell to the wayside, populating the con columns of his lists while his career and academics filled up the pros.

Sam threw a wrench into all of that with a single kiss. One press of his lips, and Spencer forgot all about the lecture series he had been preparing for Georgetown. One soft sigh that puffed out across Spencer’s cheeks, and he completely spaced on the meetings he had to go to in less than four hours. Apparently all it took to bring Spencer’s brilliant, 187 IQ brain to a screeching halt was a hulking, tall, ridiculously beautiful man with a bashful smile and the softest touch Spencer had ever been privy to.

It wasn’t the fact he was a man that freaked Spencer out.

It was that Sam managed to render him completely speechless in ten seconds flat.

So in light of that, in their present situation, Spencer decided that denial was going to be the name of the game, even as Sam rolled his eyes with a frustrated huff.

“Seriously, Spencer, what’s your problem?” he demanded, his voice raising and reverberating against the walls of the office, before he checked himself, glancing over his shoulder at the door to make sure no one was coming in, “I really want this job to work, okay? I want to be given a chance at least, and for that to even be a remote possibility, we need to get through whatever is pissing you off. I don’t even know why you’re so angry with me, man!” And really, he didn’t. That much was apparent in the flustered way he was currently pacing the room, “I don’t understand what I did wrong, but I know I don’t deserve to be iced out like this. We went on one date, one time!”

“This has nothing to do with that,” Spencer interjected meekly, a wicked flush rising to his cheeks and Sam laughed sharply, shaking his head.

“It has everything to do with that. You thought I was stalking you, and you wouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion if you didn’t assume I had some kind of vested, sexual interest in you,” Spencer winced at the accusation, but Sam wouldn’t let him speak, gesturing outwards with his palms as he ensured him, “and that’s fine! Because something physical did happen. I kissed you, but you never called me back, and that’s okay, too. You didn’t have to, if you just wanted a clean break, that’s cool. I mean, it might have been nice if you called and told me that, but what’s done is done, right?”

Suddenly, holing up and dying under Hotch’s desk sounded like a particularly viable option.

Groaning, Spencer turned and walked to the other side of Hotch’s desk, desperately needing something physically separating them for when he inevitably melted into the floor, nothing left of him but his sneakers and a puddle of embarrassment. Why couldn’t Sam just _stop talking_? He wasn’t anticipating this confrontation when he left the house that morning, and on top of everything else (spilling scalding hot coffee down the front of his favorite sweater, for one), Spencer was rapidly approaching his limit. He could feel the stress and anxiety thrumming through him, reverberating against his skin in tingling little waves, and he honestly couldn’t recall a time in which he’d felt this exhilarated when he wasn’t being held at gun point, or chasing down an unsub. 

Sam just seemed to have this knack for getting under his skin, and it surely didn’t help that, as the conversation progressed, it was becoming clear that Spencer would have to fess up to his misunderstanding eventually. Sam was working himself up, apologizing profusely and taking the blame for Spencer’s discomfort, but it was obvious he was hurt. He had liked him at one point, enough to take him on a date, enough to want to kiss him afterwards, and for Spencer to ghost him the way he did? It had to have stung.

He knew the feeling, Spencer thought ruefully. It had hurt him too, when Sam never called him the first time around.

“I just don’t understand why us going on one date has made you so hostile towards me,” Sam said, barreling onward as if Spencer wasn’t even there, “I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable at all, it wasn’t my intention. And I thought you had a good time.”

“I did,” Spencer said softly, wringing his hands in front of him, his shoulders slouching dejectedly.

“Then what’s the problem?” Sam asked, his eyebrows knitting together, an adorable furrow creasing at his forehead that made Spencer’s heart hammer in his chest and his palms sweaty, “I’m not looking for anything from you… you know that, right? Just because I’m here, doesn’t mean I’m going to expect to pick up where we left off, especially since you’ve made it clear you aren’t interested. We can just be friends, co-workers, but we can’t be anything if you don’t let go of that stupid date—”

“I didn’t know it was a date!” Spencer said in a single, quick burst, and Sam’s teeth clacked audibly as he snapped his mouth shut.

If nothing else, his spontaneous confession worked like a charm to shut Sam up. He had stopped pacing, standing in the center of Hotch’s office and staring at a spot on the floor, frowning as he puzzled over what Spencer just said. He opened his mouth as if to speak, thought better of it, and pressed his lips together in a firm line instead. Sam hummed softly, shook his head minutely, and seemed to come to some sort of decision before turning to Spencer, and asking in a muted, gentle voice, “What?”

Spencer sighed. “I didn’t realize we were on a date,” he repeated, flushing hotly in embarrassment, unable to look Sam in the eye, “I’d never… I’d never been on one before, and I’d certainly never been asked on one, so when you did, I assumed it was _just dinner_. As friends. You said dinner, Sam. You never said date.”

Sam shook his head, holding up a hand to let Spencer know he was working up to speaking, and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “No, that doesn’t make sense,” Sam said slowly, “we sat on the same side of the table.”

“It was a loud restaurant,” Spencer explained lamely, “I thought it was just so we could hear each other better.”

“You let me hold your hand on the way to the café.”

“I thought you didn’t want to lose me. It was busy downtown that night.”

“But we were up until six in the morning,” Sam stepped closer, hands held out in front of him as he ducked down, tilting his head and catching Spencer’s eye, “We walked all over the city, just talking.”

“I told you,” Spencer murmured, “I really did have a good time.”

“I—” Sam cleared his throat nervously, “I kissed you.”

“It was a night of firsts,” Sam made a pained noise that caught in his throat, understanding and acceptance dawning across his face, and Spencer shrugged, “You took me on my first date. Stands to reason you would give me my first kiss, too.”

As Sam watched him with is big, sad eyes Spencer had to look away, humiliated by his own inexperience and uncomfortable being scrutinized so intently. “Is that,” Sam stammered, running a hand over his mouth, “Is that why you never called me?”

Spencer pursed his lips, stared at the carpet and nodded.

He might have expected laughter. That was usually what he got when he was perceived as ignorant in social situations, especially when he was younger and while he’d grown used to it, learned to anticipate it, he still hated it. There was nothing in the world that could make him feel stupid, nothing, other than the condescending, pitying laughter of a person who thought it was just so damn funny that the genius Spencer Reid couldn’t read something so fundamental as social graces.

As he got older, the laughter tapered off, became more good natured, but it still bothered him. It made him feel like a kid when his colleagues poked fun at his ineptitude, or when they assumed his inexperience (even when they were right in the end). And he felt like a fool when he proved it himself, like having to admit to never having been on a date, or been kissed, at the age of twenty-two. He was humiliated, staring at the carpet heatedly as his cheeks burned in shame. He was twenty-four now, and there was no way he would ever admit to Sam that it had also been his only kiss. His only date.

But Sam didn’t laugh at, or patronize him. He didn’t even pity him. Instead, he crossed the room in two long legged strides and grasped Spencer’s chin, forcing him to look Sam in the eye, and said, “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Spencer asked, not perturbed in the least by the thumb and forefinger on his chin as he stared quizzically at Sam. He hadn’t expected an apology, and he wasn’t even certain what Sam was apologizing for.

“I didn’t realize it then, but you’re right, I wasn’t clear.” Sam spoke gently, letting his hand fall to his side and running the other through his hair, “I know you, and I shouldn’t have just assumed you understood what I was inferring. Maybe I should have asked before I kissed you. I guess I was just seeing what I wanted to see, because I—” he shrugged, half smiling, half embarrassed, “I really liked you. When I first met you again in Boston, it hit me like a smack to the face, and I was thrown off by it, too.”

Spencer bit his lip, “Is that why _you_ never called?”

Sam nodded.

“I didn’t mean to blow you off,” Spencer said with a sigh, “but you took me by surprise. I didn’t know how to approach you after, or where to go from there, and I thought if I just ignored the problem…”

Smiling shyly, his cheeks dimpling, Sam finished his sentence for him, "You thought it would just go away.”

“But it never does.”

“Not with us, at least.”

It was a newly discovered truth, and Spencer laughed despite himself, Sam chuckling along with him. “I’m sorry,” he said, gazing up at Sam from beneath his furrowed brow, a weight lifting from his chest despite the guilt he still felt from his outburst. He would _really_ have to talk to Hotch on Sam’s behalf… he’d assassinated his character on the first day of his new job, and Spencer could hardly believe the way that he acted.

But Sam just shrugged, brushing off his culpability with a soft, “Thank you, but you don’t have to be.” He stepped forward again, reaching out and tucking a loose strand of hair behind Spencer’s ear, “I’m sorry for assuming, and I’m sorry for stealing two of your firsts.”

“It wasn’t really stealing,” Spencer said, with an unexpected surge of bravery, “If I’d known what to expect, I might have given them willingly.”

Sam’s eyes widened, just a fraction but enough for Spencer to pick up on, and he ducked his chin to his chest bashfully, a flush stealing across his cheeks. “Alright already,” he said, giving Spencer a playful shove against the shoulder before stepping back and out of his personal space, “You’re forgiven, no need to flatter me.”

He wanted to say it wasn’t flattery, and the words hovered at the tip of his tongue just long enough for Spencer to wonder where the hell they came from, before a knock at the door drew him out of his reverie. Hotch opened the door and stepped in, letting it shut behind him, and Sam walked purposefully around Hotch’s desk, taking a seat in one of the arm chairs, waiting for their boss to tell them where they stood.

“I’ll keep it short,” Hotch said, as Spencer slapped his game face on and took a seat next to Sam. Walking behind his desk, Hotch didn’t sit down, choosing instead to lean over the back of his chair, towering over the two men sitting on the opposite end of it, a common intimidation tactic amongst those in a position of power. Spencer bit his cheek, mentally preparing himself for the ruthless tongue lashing he was certain was coming.

“I don’t know what history you two have, but if you are to work here, together, in the BAU, then I need to be sure you will work effectively as a team. It is imperative that I can trust you two to work together, and that you will not throw your fellow agents off their game. Any tension, any unrest at all, can mean the difference between life and death. Do you understand?”

Hotch stared them down, his dark eyes flicking between Sam and Spencer as they both nodded.

“Good.” Standing at full attention, Hotch squared his shoulders and gestured towards the door, “You’re free to go. Singer, JJ will show you to your desk. Reid, I believe you still have some reports you need to submit to me from last week.”

Spencer stammered, glancing back and forth between Hotch and Sam, who looked just as confused as he did. “Wait, that’s it?” he asked cautiously, “No double duty case work, no all-night processing stints as punishment? Just a slap on the wrist and out the door?”

“I believe the scene you caused, and the resulting gossip I’ve heard circulating in the bullpen, will serve as punishment enough,” Hotch said, and he even managed to crack a smile, “but make no mistake, I will not tolerate another outburst like that. If anything like that happens again, or if you spiral into another tirade, Reid? Then I will not hesitate to seek punitive measures. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, thank you, sir,” Sam said, shrugging his broad shoulders and standing up from the chair, wasting no time on the way to the door. Spencer hesitated, not believing for a moment that was all the punishment they were going to receive, but a stern look from Hotch had him jumping out of his seat, pushing past Sam and out the door.

He’d only made it a few feet ahead of Sam when Hotch called out from his office, “Close the door behind you please, Agent ‘Not-a-Date’ Singer.”

There was a snicker from across the bullpen, Sam’s face went as red as a tomato and Spencer wheeled around, squeaking an indignant “JJ!” as he spotted the blonde woman sitting at his desk, stifling her laughter behind her hand as she attempted to stammer out an apology.

Behind him, Sam coughed nervously into his fist.


	3. Flagstaff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! First case, and its one that hits home for poor Sam! I skim over the details a little, as this fic is part supernatural/part getting together, the details are not the important bit, but the peripheral happenings definitely are. There are some loose ends to be tied up in later chapters, so if it looks like I'm casting out plot hooks, that's totally what I'm doing lol
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and thank you so much for the kudos and kind words! They mean the world :)

“Hey, Pretty Boy!”

Morgan’s booming voice was the only warning Spencer got, before his large, strong hands slammed down on Spencer’s shoulders and jarred him out of his head. Morgan laughed heartily to himself when Spencer gasped in surprise, flinching out from underneath Morgan’s palms and asking, “What do you want?”

“Can’t I just say hello to my good friend, Doctor Reid?” Morgan said, a Cheshire grin splitting his cheeks, so sunny that Reid couldn’t help but reciprocate it.

“When you’ve got that look on your face?” Reid quipped, shaking his head, “No.”

“Oh, you wound me,” Morgan feigned to the side when Reid playfully shoved at him, grabbing at his arm as if Spencer had actually done him harm, “but you’re right, I was gonna bug you about avoiding jolly green on your way in this morning… again.”

“Does Sam know you’re calling him that?” Spencer asked, hoping it would be enough to divert Morgan onto another train of thought entirely.

“Hell yeah, it’s one of the only nicknames he approves of!” Slinging an arm over Spencer’s shoulders, Morgan walked with him in tandem down the halls of their office, leading him towards the bullpen, “And you’re not distracting me that easily. Care to tell me why you’ve been sneaking in the back door, just so you don’t have to walk by Singer’s desk?”

“I’m not.” Spencer lied through his teeth.

He totally was.

Spencer had been avoiding Sam for a whole week now. Ever since that awful first day, since his embarrassing tantrum in front of the whole department, Spencer had taken the long way around to his desk, skipping the main lobby entirely and taking the stairs instead of the elevator. He looped through the breakroom (because let’s face it, nothing could keep him from his coffee), skirting past JJ’s office when she wasn’t looking and sneaking down to his desk before Sam ever looked up from his paperwork. It helped that Sam had been absolutely inundated with casework since his first day, with Gideon trying to catch him up on the recent cases the team had worked, and Hotch attempting to suss out his profiling style. Sam hardly ever got away from his desk that first week, which meant that if Spencer could get to his _own_ desk without drawing attention to himself, he would never have to deal with the twisty, uncomfortable fluttering his stomach liked to do whenever Sam looked at him with those warm, hazel eyes.

It wasn’t a sustainable plan though, as Morgan was more than happy to point out. “You can’t avoid him forever, kid,” Morgan said, softer this time, keeping his voice down low enough that Sam couldn’t pick it out over the noise in the bullpen, “He’s a part of the team now. Once we get a case, you’re gonna be stuck working with him for at least forty-eight hours. And why are you avoiding him, anyways? I thought you two worked your shit out?”

“We did,” Spencer said, making a sharp turn into the staff room and a bee-line for the coffee pot, breaking out from under Morgan’s guiding palms in the process, “and we are, I mean, we’re fine. It’s just—”

Morgan held his hands up in mock defense. “I get it, man, no need to explain,” he said, leaning up against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, watching as Spencer pulled a mug down from the cupboard, “It’s probably pretty embarrassing having everyone on the team know your first kiss was with Andre the Giant, but I promise you, we’ve all basically forgot about it.”

Spencer shot him a withering look as he poured himself a generous cup of coffee. “Then why do you insist on bringing it up?” he asked, going for broke with the sugar, and pointedly ignoring Morgan’s mortified expression.

“Because you’re the closest thing I’m ever gonna have to a little brother,” Morgan said, shrugging his shoulders, “and if I can’t rip on you for this, then what else have I got?”

“You’re such a jerk.”

“Yeah, I know,” he smiled, adding, “Seriously though, Reid. You don’t have to worry about people talking, alright? It’s old news, and its not a big deal. Besides, if anyone bugs you, all you gotta do is send ‘em my way, okay?”

“If I say okay, will you drop it, and let me pretend this conversation never happened?”

Morgan grinned widely, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He walked Spencer to his desk, dropping him off before tailing down the hall, hot on the heels of Hilde from HR, and Spencer was never so glad for the single piece of plexiglass that separated his cubicle from Sam’s. It wasn’t even a barrier, and Spencer could still see every move he made (as Sam could with him), but it served as a superficial one at least, a physical prop between the two of them, and a reminder to Spencer to keep his distance.

The past week had been a difficult dance for him, balancing his need to keep off of Sam’s radar, with his desire to seem ambivalent about Sam’s presence in the BAU. He didn’t want to make Sam _feel_ like he was avoiding him, but at the same time, Spencer wanted to avoid him. Morgan was right in that they’d made nice; Spencer had reconciled that Sam wasn’t stalking him, and that, however improbable it was, Sam really did end up there coincidentally, while Sam got some closure after Spencer ghosted him years ago. There was no bad blood left between them, and that was exactly the problem.

It was as if no time had passed at all, and whenever Spencer caught Sam’s eye, he felt just as inexperienced, flayed open and raw as when Sam had kissed him. He didn’t even need to speak to him to know his crush on Sam was still holding true. All Spencer needed to do was look up through that sheet of plexiglass as Sam pushed his long brown hair back from his face, see his brow furrowed in concentration and the way his tongue pushed at his lower lip when he was really puzzling something out, and he was smitten all over again.

Why did they have to put his desk directly across the room from Spencer’s? He was certain at first that it was JJ’s idea, but she had been so apologetic, and had sincerely felt terrible about spilling the details of Spencer and Sam’s history, that he knew she would never have put Spencer in this predicament. Logically, he knew it was probably just the only desk available that was close to the rest of the team, as Hotch liked to keep them centralized in the bullpen, but the position of his desk to Sam’s was a straight shot, an uninhibited field of view, with nothing but a piece of plastic between them.

It meant he could see everything Sam did. Every time he smiled, his cheeks dimpling and eyes shining, Spencer had a front row seat. And whenever he spoke, his shoulders slouched forward to make him seem more unassuming, his face so incredibly, effortlessly expressive, Spencer more often than not found himself lost in watching him. It was getting to be a real problem, too; he’d only managed to get through half of the extra case work he wanted to complete before the end of the week. Not only was Sam being frustratingly, obliviously distracting, he was also unwittingly cutting into Spencer’s productivity, and that was just unacceptable.

So engrossed in glowering at poor, oblivious Sam, Spencer barely noticed when JJ walked across the bullpen, stopping in front of his desk and holding a file above her head. “Sammy,” she called affectionately, startling Spencer into the present, who jumped in his seat and turned to look at her, “Ready for your first case?”

“What are we looking at?” Elle asked as they filed into the boardroom, taking their respective seats around the table, Spencer conveniently picking the chair as far away from Sam as possible. If he noticed, he (mercifully) didn’t say anything, but Morgan shot him a simpering glance that had Reid shifting in his seat.

“Four kids kidnapped in Flagstaff, Arizona over the past four months, all twelve years old and all of them from the same school. Two of them were murdered, and two are still in the wind,” JJ explained handing out the case files and bringing up photographs on the screen, “Lucy Deville, Jonah Thomas, Kyle Forsythe and Ian Wagner were all picked up by the unsub sometime between school and home, starting October 5th. Lucy and Jonah’s bodies were recovered from the Little Colorado River along Route 66, between Flagstaff and Holbrook.”

“Four kids, two deaths and we’re just being called in now?” Hotch commented from his seat at the end of the table, “What took them so long?”

“They didn’t think it was a pattern, no one could identify where the first two kids went missing, and I know Lucy’s parents were worried she had just run away,” JJ said somberly, “It wasn’t until Jonah was taken and her body was found that they realized they had a serial abductor, and by the time their request got to us, Kyle had been kidnapped as well.”

“What’s the cause of death?” Reid asked, studying the photos on screen intently, “they look pretty banged up, but the scrapes are superficial. It actually looks like they were in a car accident.”

“Seat belt bruises across the chests of both victims corroborate this,” JJ said, flipping open a file on the table, and sliding it over to him, “official cause of death is asphyxiation, but each victim had similar scrapes and contusions all over their bodies, as well as a matching blow to the right temple.”

“Their injuries match to the letter, and all but the bruises and scrapes seemed to be inflicted post-mortem” Sam said softly, flipping over the coroner’s reports, “and their tox screens tested positive for benzodiazepine… Rohypnol, Valium… the unsub kept these kids heavily sedated.” He frowned, “How long between the kidnapping and when their bodies were recovered?”

“One month to the day,” JJ answered, leaning up against the wall, “Lucy was kidnapped October 5th, recovered November 5th, the same day Jonah was taken. Jonah was recovered December 5th, when Kyle was kidnapped.”

“What about Ian?” Morgan asked.

“He seems to be the exception,” Reid noted, flipping through the file in front of him, “the unsub was sticking to a precise schedule, up until Ian Wagner. He was kidnapped on the 15th of December, when logically it should have been January 5th… and Kyle’s body still hasn’t been found?”

JJ shook her head.

“That mean’s he’s going off script,” Hotch said, standing up and grabbing his file off the table, “and we need to figure out what set him off, before Kyle and Ian suffer the consequences. Everyone grab your go-bags, wheels up in thirty.”

* * *

 

Rolling into Flagstaff, Sam wasn’t prepared for the flood of memories that assailed him as he drove down the familiar streets to the cop shop. He couldn’t fathom how a single visit to this city in his childhood, one that ended so grievously, could have left such a lasting impression on him, but passing by the storefronts and schools, his anxiety levels skyrocketed as he tried to keep his expression schooled. It was his first case, and he couldn’t afford to lose his cool.

It didn’t help matters that it was the first time he was being placed in forced proximity to Spencer. The younger agent had been doing a bang-up job of avoiding Sam for his first week, and that was fine by him. It made things easier, helped Sam to compartmentalize and separate the Spencer Reid he’d known in California, Michigan and Connecticut with the doctor he worked with at the BAU. It helped Sam to slap up a barrier between them, to push his feelings for Spencer off to the side and recognize that Spencer didn’t feel the same way.

The minute he’d seen Spencer again, it was as if nothing had changed. It was like Dean hadn’t returned from the dead, like Sam hadn’t become a federal agent and instead they were back at Yale, connecting over coffee and past mistakes. All it took was one look at those big doe eyes, one word spoken with authority from between those plump lips, and Sam was smitten, all over again.

They hadn’t spoken to each other since their talk in Hotch’s office, but Sam’s desk sat right across the bullpen from Spencer’s, and though they had no contact, Spencer was friends with every other person on their team. They had been welcoming with Sam, who was becoming fast friends with Elle and Morgan, but from the time he’d been there he’d already garnered that Spencer was the kid brother, to ever one of them. He was the youngest in the office by far, a federal agent with three doctorates under his belt at the age of twenty-four, and though he was most certainly capable of taking care of himself, and Sam would never in his life cross a line Spencer didn’t want to cross, it was clear the rest of the team was watching Sam’s every move, in an attempt to have Spencer’s back.

It was intimidating, though not unexpected. And it was aggravating, but not unfair.

He just hoped their concern didn’t go as far as mistrust in Sam. He could see that getting in the way of doing their jobs effectively.

In the car, he finally had time to worry about their dynamic, and how it would affect the rest of the team in the field. Sam and Spencer hadn’t been working together as much as they were working _around_ each other, but now? That wasn’t an option. There were two kids dead, two kids missing, and if they couldn’t set aside whatever uneasiness they had been internalizing about each other, they would be putting those kids in jeopardy.

Sam only wished he knew what he could do, if anything, to alleviate Spencer’s clear discomfort around him.

They’d cleared the air (at least he thought they had), and while he knew _he_ had been avoiding Spencer because it made dealing with his decidedly unprofessional feelings towards his co-worker easier, he didn’t know why Spencer was avoiding _him_. He might be feeling uncomfortable, knowing Sam liked him like… that (for lack of a better term, and knowing full well that made him sound like a ten-year-old girl), but Sam had assured him he was going to put that behind him. Spencer didn’t have to, and shouldn’t, know that Sam still had feelings for him. There was no way Spencer figured him out; Sam was a master at hiding himself, a survival mechanism he learned early on when he had to explain to teachers and other people of authority why his dad left him and his brother alone for weeks at a time, why they lived in hotels or out of their car, and why they moved around almost constantly.

Sure, Spencer was a profiler, but so was Sam, and he also had a lifetime of experience hiding who he really was under his belt. Spencer couldn’t possibly know that thing he did, where he went off on peripherally related tangents because his brain worked so fast, and no one could keep up with his thought process, made Sam weak in the knees. There was no way Spencer had deduced that when he sucked his lower lip into his mouth, as he studied case files at his desk and flipped through them at a break-neck speed, it made Sam want to stride across the bullpen and pull him from his seat, to take Spencer’s abused lip between his teeth and worry it with his own tongue. It was absolutely impossible for Spencer to know that Sam had caught up on the majority of his paperwork at home, after hours, because when he was in the office, he was too often distracted with everything Spencer did that he couldn’t get any work done.

Well, not impossible, but definitely improbable.

Or maybe, Sam was more transparent than he thought.

Maybe Spencer had noticed his attention, and that was what made him avoid Sam.

And if that were the case, then Sam would feel like the worlds biggest asshole, but he didn’t think so. Because the only time he ever noticed Spencer looking at _him_ , was when Sam wasn’t paying attention. He’d caught Spencer a handful of time, staring across the bullpen at Sam, and whenever Sam would look up, Spencer would look away, flushing hotly and determinedly keeping his gaze averted. But when Sam looked away again, even if he couldn’t see it himself, he could feel in his periphery as Spencer glanced over at him again, like he was doing _right that moment_ in the car.

Sam looked sharply to see the other agent, who was sitting behind the driver’s seat, had been watching him through the rear-view mirror as Sam drove them to the Flagstaff PD. And for once, their eyes locked, Spencer’s reflexes thrown off by Sam’s sudden realization he was being watched. Spencer’s eyes widened and he pulled his lower lip between his teeth, rolling his tongue over it, his mind probably whirring a mile a minute as he tried to determine the best way to proceed. But as soon as Sam caught sight of Spencer’s pink tongue sweeping over his lips, he was entranced, his heart thundering in his chest and his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. He could see in his own reflection the way his expression softened, going lax with the sudden surge of arousal that shocked him to his core, and all at once Spencer recognized the look he was getting through the mirror, diverting his eyes as a flush rose to his cheeks.

Sam coughed nervously and looked away, breathing a sigh of relief as he turned into the cop shop and parked the SUV.

The case, he thought to himself, work the case. He could put Spencer out of his head, and save his confusion for when they got home. Right now, he couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not when the lives of two kids were on the line.

This was his first case with the BAU. He had an impression to make, and he wanted it to be a good one.

“Good afternoon, Agents,” a well-dressed woman called as they entered the building, “I’m Detective McPhee, the one who called you in. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“With this most recent kidnapping, the unsub’s off their normal schedule,” Hotch explained, keeping his voice low enough that no one could overhear, “and that means time is of the essence. Did you happen to get my message?”

“Yes, and I had my people do as you asked,” McPhee said, leading the team to the back rooms with a wave of her hand, “I gathered the parents of all the missing and murdered children, and got them settled in separate rooms. Now, I get why you would want to speak with the Forsythe’s and Mr. Wagner, but Lucy and Jonah’s parents are still mourning the loss of their kids… is it really necessary to put them through an interrogation, again?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” JJ explained, placing a comforting hand on McPhee’s arm, “it’s standard procedure. As profilers, our agents may be able to pick up on subtle nuances that you and your staff haven’t been trained to see. We will do our best to be as unobtrusive as possible.”

McPhee studied her for a moment, before nodding. “How do you want to do this?” she asked.

Hotch decided to send them in teams, to interview the parents. Lucy’s parents were the least helpful, this being their third time in the police station since their daughter was buried, but with the efforts of JJ and Hotch, they managed to relay their story once again. Morgan had no problem with Jonah’s mom, who was in mourning, but determined that no one’s else’s child end up murdered and thrown in a river like her boy had been. The Forsythe’s were despondent, mourning the loss of their son, assured they would have no peace until Kyle was found, dead or alive, making Reid and Elle work terribly hard for heir statement.

And then, there was Ian’s father… Randall Wagner.

The instant Sam stepped into the room, after Gideon, he was assailed with the smell of stale beer and whiskey, the stench of a man who had spent the better half of the previous night drinking himself into a coma. Despite being indoors, in the dark, Mr. Wagner wore his sunglasses, tilted askew over his nose as he all but buried his head in his arms. He groaned loudly when Sam closed the door, the staccato click of the lock echoing in the room, and the sound of their feet hammering against the floor no doubt splitting the man’s head in two.

Sam wondered briefly if Gideon noticed, though he had his answer when the senior agent pulled his chair across the floor, purposefully dragging it along the concrete and making the legs squeal horridly.

“Jesus!” Randall cried, looking up sharply, his complexion pallid, “Don’t _do_ that!”  

“Sorry about that,” Gideon said drolly, looking Randall over. He was still in his pajamas (despite it being one in the afternoon), with just a work jacket thrown on over top, and his hair was a wild mess. His face was long, drawn and heavily lined, making him appear older than he was, and his eyes were watery and red behind his sun glasses. He was clearly hungover, and irate, rubbing at his temples and frowning deeply at the two agents sitting at the table in front of him.

He couldn’t blame Randal Wagner for drinking. His son had been kidnapped, and was missing for days now, after a string of kidnappings and murders of other children at his school. Less than that had sent Sam into an alcohol fueled binge of stupidity.

But there was something else there, just below the surface, that Sam couldn’t seem to place.

It didn’t seem like Mr. Wagner was upset at being bothered, while he was trying to forget his son’s predicament by drowning himself in copious amounts of alcohol. No, the way he looked at Sam and Gideon, it was almost as if Mr. Wagner was mad at them for wasting his time.

In the end, Randall’s story corroborated with the others. Ian was taking the path through a construction site home, just like all the other kids had. They ducked in between the buildings, and they never came out the other side. There were no ransom demands, no idea where they left or who they left with, but since there was no sign of struggle on the scene, it was safe to assume they knew their kidnapper. The only person who was able to spot a vehicle was another neighbourhood kid named Tommy, who said he saw a red SUV leaving the construction site around the time Kyle was taken… but there were no plates, and oddly enough, no make or model.

The parents, in various degrees of cooperation, gave their statements and left, most just happy to be out of the building that housed their worst nightmare come to life. Sam walked Mr. Wagner out of the interview room and to the front door, holding it open for him as he assured him, “We’re going to do everything in our power to bring your son home, Mr. Wagner.”

The man studied Sam over the tops of his sun glasses, and huffed. “Yeah,” he spat, “yeah, you do that.”

Something was definitely off, Sam thought to himself, gnawing at his lower lip as he joined the rest of the team. They were discussing their findings, checking the stories, but there was something missing. “He doesn’t match the other victims,” Sam said softly, and Hotch turned to him, eye brow raised. “Ian,” he clarified, “All the other kids are brunettes with brown eyes and braces, but Ian is blonde with green eyes. He was also taken on the wrong date… he doesn’t fit within the profile.”

“Maybe a stressor drove him off script?” Reid suggested, “Or maybe he was forced to take Ian?”

“No, it’s different.” Sam hummed, and turned to Hotch, asking, “Sir, I know this is my first case, and I don’t want to overstep, but would you mind if I checked out the dump sites?”

“That’s perfectly fine, I was going to split the team between the dump sites and the school anyways.” Hotch pointed to Reid and Morgan, “The two of you head to the school, see if there are any faculty or staff missing, or any with scattered periods of unexplained absence. Sam, you can head to the dump site with Elle and Gideon.”

Sam nodded, gathering up his files from the table they had set up on, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the board. He had never worked a case with the BAU before, but he had played this game a thousand times on hunts, and he was good at it. He could tell when a piece of the puzzle didn’t fit, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something about _Ian_ was wrong. He couldn’t put it into words, but he just had a feeling that the more they looped Ian into their profile, the further away from the unsub they’d actually get.

“If you talk about it, we can help you,” Elle said to him, drawing his attention away from the board, “that’s what we’re here for. What are you thinking?”

“I’ll let you know once I figure it out,” Sam said, files in hand and heading out the door.

* * *

 

Fifteen hours. That was all it took to find Kyle Forsythe.

The unsub, Douglas Carol, lost his son Jackson, a twelve-year-old boy with brown hair, brown eyes and braces, five years ago on the 5th of October. This year, a week before the anniversary of his son’s death, his wife committed suicide, leaving a scathing note behind blaming her husband for her son’s death, as he was driving the car when he fell asleep at the wheel, crashing into the guard rail.

That was the stressor. He felt guilty for his son’s death (a freak accident, the coroner’s report read; he had his feet up on the dash, his knee caught his left temple and he died on impact), and every month it seemed that Mr. Carol was kidnapping kids that looked like his son. He kept them drugged but cared for at his scrapyard, and on the day Jackson died, he replicated the crash. That’s why he wounded them post mortem… he cared for the kids, and the crash wouldn’t kill them. So, he suffocated them and hurt them after, so they (in his mind) wouldn’t feel pain.

Kyle was recovered alive, drugged out of his mind and terrified, but otherwise fine. He recalled that he met Douglas Carol on the pathway home, standing by the path smoking a cigarette. Kyle had stopped to talk to him, as did Lucy and Jonah, as he was the auto-shop teacher at their school. Part time, Mondays and Fridays.

But even though they scoured Douglas Carol’s house, they couldn’t find Ian.

“He has to be somewhere,” Morgan said over the radio, and Sam nodded his agreement in the passenger seat, “A kidnapper doesn’t just misplace a kid.” They were driving back to the station with Gideon, after turning the entirety of Carol’s scrapyard apart.

“We have officers searching the properties nearby, but so far there’s no sign of him,” Hotch’s voice sounded in their earpiece, “Carol doesn’t seem to remember taking him either.”

“How do we know he’s being sincere?” Morgan asked.

“He’s in the midst of a psychotic break,” Reid said, his voice crackling over the radio as Morgan drove through an underpass, “He’s not really capable of lying at the moment.”

“He’s right,” Sam bit his thumbnail, and looked out the window. Ian wasn’t there, he wasn’t anywhere they had anticipated him being. They saved one kid, the one that fit with the victimology, but the outlier was still out there. “We need to go to Wagner’s house,” he said suddenly, turning to look at Gideon in the back seat, who was watching him warily, “Ian doesn’t fit the victimology, and we aren’t going to find any clues as to where he is at the scrapyard. But his _dad_ …”

Sam tapered off, looking back out the window.

“What is it?” Gideon asked, leaning forwards in his seat, “You’ve been looping back to Randall Wagner all day long, what are you thinking?”

“I don’t have any proof,” Sam said helplessly, “it’s just a feeling—”

“Feelings are good, Sam,” Morgan looked at him briefly, tearing his eyes away from the road, “they save lives. Spit it out.”

“It’s just, when Randall Wagner was in the station, he didn’t seem all that… perturbed that his son was missing.” The line fell quiet, the rest of the team listening to him over the radio, “It was almost as if he didn’t care whether we found Ian or not. Like it didn’t matter to him.”

“So, you think Wagner has something to do with his son’s disappearance?” Hotch asked.

“Yes,” Sam said, shaking his head, “but not in the way you’re thinking. Please, can we go back to Ian’s house?”

He looked over his shoulder at Gideon, pleadingly.

Gideon nodded, “Hotch, we’re taking Morgan along with us to check out Wagner’s.”

“Good luck, and keep us posted,” was all their unit chief said before signing off. 

* * *

 

They ended up knocking on Randall’s door for a while. Morgan was beginning to get antsy, shuffling between his feet while Gideon spoke with Hotch on the phone, checking up on Carol’s processing. But Sam just kept hammering on the door, a steady, droning knock he was certain would drive Mr. Wagner mental, especially if he had kept drinking all afternoon.

“The doors open! Shut the fuck up, and just come in!”

All three agents shared a look as Mr. Wagner bellowed through the front door, and Sam shrugged, turning the knob and opening the door. “Mr. Wagner?” he called as they made their way down the hall, “Mr. Wagner, its Agent Singer, we met yesterday at the station?”

There was a grunt of recognition from the living room, barely audible over the sound of the television, and Gideon nodded for Sam and Morgan to look through the house. “Mr. Wagner,” Sam heard Gideon say, as he and Morgan continued down the bare walled corridor, “we’ve located Kyle Forsythe, but unfortunately there’s still no sign of your son.”

“So?” Randall Wagner replied, and Morgan looked incredulously over his shoulder.

“Can you believe this guy?” he asked Sam in a harsh whisper.

“Yeah, actually,” Sam replied, pointing to a nearby chest of drawers, littered with framed pictures of Wagner and his late wife, and not a single photo of Ian, “I can.”

They found Ian’s room, but not easily. There were three bedrooms in the single story Wagner home, and all three looked identical. They each contained a chest of drawers, a desk with a single pen and a single pad of paper, a twin bed and a side table, with a lamp. The walls were bare, wood panelled and spotless, and the beds were made immaculately. The only indication they were in Ian’s room at all were the child-sized clothes in the dresser.

“It looks like a military barrack in here,” Morgan breathed, looking around the spotless room and marvelling at the perfectly made bed, “My room was always a mess when I was a kid, full of posters and clothes, but this room doesn’t have a bit of Ian in it.”

Sam shook his head, “It does. You just have to know where to look.”

Sliding his hand across the wood panelled walls, Sam paused over one of the panels that stuck out maybe half an inch more than the others. With a sad smile, he pushed the bottom, and the panel toppled to the floor, revealing two rolled up comic books, well read and well loved, stuffed into the wall.

“When I was a kid,” Sam explained, toeing at the floorboards until he found a loose one, “I used to keep books in a false bottom in my backpack. My dad had no problem with me reading if it was for school, or to help with the family business, but if he ever caught me reading novels, I was in for it. He thought they were a waste of time, and he was always so insecure about me learning any more than I had to.”

Crouching down, Sam flipped the loose floorboard, and pulled out a discman, and three CD’s.

“I used to have all this time to myself,” he said, not noticing as Gideon stepped into the room, “because he was always gone on business, and once my brother was old enough, he’d take Dean with him, too. On the odd times when he was home, he drank. We never saw eye to eye and we fought like hell.” Sam paused by the mattress and lifted the corner, pulling out a small first aid kit, “But sometimes that was better. It was better to have him talking than ignoring me, to have him there instead of gone, because that kind of neglect and isolation… it starts to do things to you. Human’s aren’t supposed to live like that.”

What were the odds, Sam thought to himself… what were the chances that the first case he’d end up on would be this one, in Flagstaff of all places?

“I know where he is,” Sam said softly, picking up an empty picture frame from beside his bed, “His toothbrush is missing, and I’m willing to bet he kept a picture of his mom in here, that he refused leave behind.” Walking over to the desk, Sam felt along the underside of the desktop and inhaling sharply when his fingers brushed over a few scraps of paper that had been taped there. Crouching down, he gingerly peeled back the tape, laying out news paper clippings, all related to the recent kidnappings, on the desk for Morgan and Gideon to see. “Ian wasn’t kidnapped,” he said, pulling out his cellphone and dialing the tech analysts number, “he used the kidnappings as cover so he could run away.”

The line rang twice, before a woman picked up with a chipper sounding, “Office of Unfettered Omniscience. Penelope Garcia is in. Speak, oh fortunate one.”

Sam balked for a second, coughing uncomfortably before saying, “Hey, this is SSA Singer—”

“Oh! The newbie! Hello, newbie,” Garcia quipped, and Sam almost heard her grin through the phone, “I’m sorry we had to meet like this, I hear you’re _very_ tall.”

“Um, I—” another cough into his fist, and Sam could feel his face heating up in embarrassment, “I guess, I—”

Morgan laughed, and tugged on Sam’s arm, pulling his phone away from his ear and spoke into the mouthpiece, “Down baby girl, he’s shy and we’ve got a kid to find.”

“Tall, handsome and bashful,” Garcia said when Sam took his phone back, “What a winning combination. Alright, sugar, what do you need?”

“I was wondering if you could find a motel for me,” Sam asked, leaning back against Ian’s desk, “It would be in between Ian Wagner’s home and his school, and would be directly accessible from the footpath the other kids were abducted from.”

“Got it,” Penelope said after a few seconds of frantic key clacking, “You’re looking at the Motel Six, about ten minutes from your location. I’m sending you the address now.”

“Wow,” Sam raised a brow, “that was quick.”

“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Garcia laughs, and Sam felt his phone vibrate as she texted him the address, “you’ll learn.” He heard the phone click, and the line go dead.

Sam dropped the frame to the bed, slipped his phone in his pocket and headed for the door, when Gideon held out a hand to stop him. “Wait, Singer,” he said, “if he’s running away, wouldn’t he go further than just down the street?”

“No,” Sam said simply.

“How do you know that?”

Pausing halfway down the hall, Sam looked over his shoulder with a shrug and said, “It’s what I did.”

They left the house in a hurry, but Randall Wagner didn’t say a word. He never got up from his chair, never even looked away from the television, as the three federal agents sprinted from his house on their way to recover his son.

* * *

 

Ian Wagner cried on the way to the police station.

He’d clung to Sam’s side like a frantic, sobbing octopus, all long limbs and snot, begging them not to take him home.

By the time Sam arrived at the motel, three uniformed officers already had the boy in their custody, handing him over the federal agents so they could escort him to the station. They figured, since they were bringing him back to his father, they may as well let him ride in the comfortable SUV instead of the back of a cop car. Let him feel free one last time, before thrusting him back into his father’s prison.

Sam volunteered to sit in the back of the car with him, and while Gideon gave him a look that told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was getting too close to this, no one said anything otherwise. Ian was quietly crying up against the door, his forehead pressed to the window as he whimpered quietly, clutching his backpack to his chest with both arms like it was his lifeline.

It was like looking back in time, Sam thought to himself, remembering a night just like this one when _he_ was Ian’s age, leaving a motel in tears in the back of the Impala, Dean and his father deadly silent in the front. The radio had been turned off, and the only sounds were his dad’s fingers tapping on the wheel, the road roaring beneath the car and Sam’s stifled sobs as he cradled his wounded cheek. Dean hadn’t so much as breathed during the car ride, sitting straight backed and stalwart, chancing relieved glances at Sam through the wing mirror, as if he were making sure Sam was still there.

He’d gotten his ass handed to him that night.

Sam reached into his back pocket with a sigh, pulling out his wallet. Ian half glanced at him, not moving his forehead from the glass, and shuffled over, taking the picture of his mom out and handing it to Ian. “That’s my mom on the left,” Sam said softly, and both Gideon and Reid looked back at him from the front seat, “me in the middle, and my brother Dean on the right. This was taken only a few days before she died, and I never go anywhere without it.”

Ian studied the picture carefully, biting his lip before reaching into his backpack and pulling out a carefully folded photograph. “Is that your mom?” Sam asked, pointing to the young woman in the picture, who was smiling widely as she presented her newborn baby to the camera. Ian nodded, and Sam smiled, “She’s beautiful.”

“I don’t really remember her,” Ian said, running his fingers over the surface of the picture, smoothing out the folded edges, “How did your mom die?”

“In a house fire, when I was just a baby,” Sam said, tucking the photo back into his wallet, “I don’t remember her either, but my brother Dean does, and he’s told me all about her. Does your dad tell you about your mom?”

Ian shook his head, “Not so much, not anymore. But my aunt used to tell me about her all the time, until she stopped coming around.”

“Yeah, I know what that’s like,” Sam said, watching Ian carefully, well aware of Gideon and Spencer listening to him in the front seat, “My dad used to drink a lot, you know? And when he drank, he didn’t like anyone talking about her, so Dean just kind of… stopped. My dad was strict too, like yours. Was he military?”

Ian nodded, “Marine Corp.”

“Mine, too.” Sam sat back in his seat, “He used to make us read training manuals, run five miles every morning before school and do obstacle courses on the weekends. We had to clean and service every firearm he owned, and once a month we would run through evacuation drills. I had to make my bed like yours, every morning, and I wasn’t allowed to have comic books or toys, because—”

“If you have time to play, you have time to do chores,” Ian finished for him, and Sam’s heart clenched painfully in his chest.

“He’d only ever hit me if I pushed his buttons,” Sam continued, and now Ian was back to looking out the window, his lower lip trembling as he tried to keep from sobbing out loud, “If I didn’t follow orders, cried or talked back. I learned how to bandage myself up, but usually Dean was there to help me. I think Dean helped in a lot of ways I didn’t realize then, but a smack or a beating wasn’t as bad as when they would leave.” He studied Ian’s profile carefully, watching as recognition spread across his face, “Dad would take Dean with him for work, and he’d be gone days at a time. I’d be all alone, and I’d have to take care of myself. Cook and clean, get myself to school, that sort of thing. But even when he was there, he wasn’t _really_ there, you know? He’d never talk to me, unless he was telling me to do something, or he was giving me shit. I remember it being really lonely.”

“It is,” Ian said, hiccupping around a sob, “It’s worse.”

“Do you sometimes push his buttons on purpose, just to make him talk to you?”

Ian choked, hot tears rolling down his cheeks as he stared resolutely out the window. He nodded.

“Does he call you names sometimes, and make you feel stupid?”

Ian nodded again.

“You didn’t think he’d notice you were gone, did you?”

Ian turned to him and shook his head, his jaw quivering.

Sam couldn’t help himself any longer. He reached across the seat and pulled Ian into his side, cradling the boy’s head in his hand as the dam broke, and Ian sobbed viciously into his suit jacket. Shushing him gently, Sam ran his palm up and down Ian’s back, soothing him as he caught Spencer’s eye in the rear-view mirror. Gideon was glancing at him as well, his attention being pulled back to the road, but Spencer stared unabashedly, his brow’s furrowed in concern as he watched Sam comfort the little runaway.

“I ran away too,” Sam said, resting his chin on Ian’s head, “here in Flagstaff, actually. My dad was here on business, but he left and so did Dean. I was alone, I was angry and I’d been saving up whatever money I could get my hands on for months. When they left me alone, I knew it was my chance, and I left. Got a motel up the road, because I figured, if they were looking for me, they’d expect me to go as far away as I could. They wouldn’t think I’d stay in town. That’s what you thought too, right?” Ian nodded, “Your dad didn’t have to leave to give you an out, though. You saw the kidnappings, figured out a pattern and used it to hide in plain sight. Made all of us think you were taken too, so we wouldn’t find you and take you back home.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian sobbed, burying his face into Sam’s chest, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bother anyone, I just couldn’t stay there anymore. I can’t stay there, please! Don’t make me go back there!”

“It’s okay,” Sam shushed him, casting Spencer a pleading glance through the mirror, who shook his head sadly. His heart just about tore in two, and he held Ian tighter, “It’s okay, we’re going to take you to the station and sort this all out, okay?”

“Please!” Ian cried, his hands balling into fists, grabbing great handfuls of Sam’s lapels.

Sam winced, closing his eyes tightly as he held Ian close. Spencer had flipped open his cell, and in hushed tones he asked Hotch to have a child services agent available when they got to the station, but the look in his eye when he met Sam’s gaze said it all. There was no physical evidence of abuse, and while Ian’s home life was absurdly strict, the neglect he suffered wasn’t so much physical was it was emotional. It was harder to determine prolonged isolation and neglect in a child’s home, and more often then not, which their resources spread so thin, child services opted to keep the kid in their parent’s house, under supervised care, unless the child was in immediate danger. Chances were, even with child services involved, Ian would be forced to go back to his father’s home, plunged back into solitude.

“Listen to me,” Sam said, pushing Ian back so he could look him in the eye, “listen. I know how hard this is, and I know that going back home sounds like the worst punishment in the world, but I promise you, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. There is a way out, if you work towards it, and you keep focused. I thought I would be under my dads thumb my whole life, until someone I respected told me I could be more than what he tried to make me.” He wiped Ian’s cheek, smearing the tears more than wiping them away, and Sam tried to smile, though he was certain it looked as forced as it felt, “Mr. Wyatt, my English teacher. He told me that there are three or four big choices that shape someone's whole life, and you need to be the one that makes them, not anyone else. If you want out of your father’s house, you can get out. Work hard, go to school and keep doing what you’re doing. And if he ever hurts you, don’t keep it to yourself. Tell someone, here—” he fished a card out of his back pocket, and pressed it into Ian’s palm, “tell me. But promise me you aren’t going to give up, because I promise _you_ , it gets better. Live the life you want, okay?”

Ian dove forward again, wrapping his arms around Sam’s torso like he was trying to get them round twice over, and didn’t say another word.

On the jet three hours later, headed back to Washington, Sam found himself sitting alone and deep in thought. He’d been reprimanded by Gideon, though it was the gentlest reprimand he’d ever received, for allowing himself to get too emotionally invested in a case. “I know it’s difficult when you see yourself in a victim,” he’d told him as they left the station, pulling Sam away from the waiting room where he had been watching Ian speak with a child services agent, “and for your first case, it was a tough one. But you have to find a way to be objective, or else your ability to do your job will be compromised.”

Hotch had mirrored the same sentiment, though he had praised his instincts. Sam knew there was something off about Ian from the very beginning, and that allowed them to shift focus to the other victims and away from the outlier, which would have thrown them off of Carol’s trail. He called it a win, though having to leave Ian behind, to no doubt be sent back to his neglectful, abusive father, didn’t seem like much of a victory to Sam.

The rest of the team seemed to appreciate his prickly mood, and kept their distance. Finding Kyle alive and well was a win, finding Ian was alive as well was doubly so. But Sam couldn’t help but feel like they were failing him, leaving him behind to go back to his dad, the same way he had been dragged back home when he was Ian’s age.

Sam had gotten out through strength of will and stubbornness, but he had Dean to lean on. Ian had no one, just himself in that cold, dead house, and he couldn’t help but worry the kid wouldn’t be able to keep his head above water.

The seat next to him dipped and creaked, though Sam never looked away from the window, until Spencer’s voice cut through the roiling doubt that clouded his mind. “He’s being interviewed by child services, and even though they’re probably going to have to send him back home, he’s in their system now,” Spencer said, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the other agents, “they’ll check up on him periodically, and his teachers will all be informed to look out for him, until he turns eighteen and moves out. He’s going to be okay.”

“I know,” Sam murmured, sitting back in his seat and turning to Spencer, caught by the look of concern in the younger man’s eyes, “I know that, physically, he’ll be fine. But I also know that childhood victims of emotional abuse and neglect become sad adults with little or no self-esteem, problems bonding with others and a tendency towards self-destruction. The damage is done, and going back home? It’s just going to make him believe that things are never going to change. He doesn’t know a life outside of his father’s house, he doesn’t know that it gets better.”

“He does now,” Spencer said, sitting sideways in his seat and curling a leg underneath himself so he could face Sam, “You showed him it does. You connected with him, and he saw you for what you are now: a well-rounded adult with a good job, who got away from his awful childhood while still retaining the ability to care for people. He’s a smart kid, and he has a support system now. He’s not alone anymore.”

“That’s all it takes, huh?” Sam asked, smiling despite himself, “Just one person is all it takes for you to realize you matter?”

“It worked for you,” Spencer looked down at his hands, where they curled in his lap and flushed, gnawing his lower lip as he paused, thinking, “and you were that person, for me.”

“What?” Sam raised a brow, “Really? How?”

“Memorial Court,” he said simply, “Valentine’s Day, 2002.”

“You’re kidding.” Spencer just looked away and shook his head, and Sam grinned wider, “All I did was give you a stupid teddy bear.”

“Sure,” Spencer said sarcastically, still refusing to look at him, but Sam caught the hint of a smile curling at his lips, “that’s _all_ you did. And much like your Mr. Wyatt, you helped me to realize that I was better than I thought I was, than the people who bullied me wanted me to think. So, thanks for that.”

Sam’s smile faltered a little, and he looked back out the window, tracking the lights of the buildings as they whizzed underneath the plane. “I’ve dealt with bullies my whole life,” he said, “and my dad was the worst of them. I never doubted for a moment that he loved us, but after our mom died he went a little nuts, and was convinced he needed to protect us from everything. That we needed to be prepared for anything. Did you know that I never had a home?” Spencer shook his head, “I never had a bedroom, either. He drove us around for work, never staying in one spot for more than a couple months, and if we weren’t living in motel rooms, we were sleeping in the car.”

Morgan’s music, which had been humming through his headphones the whole flight, immediately shut off, and the clacking of chess pieces from Elle and Gideon stopped.

But Spencer didn’t mention any of these things, and he didn’t turn away. Instead he shifted again, giving Sam his undivided attention, and after a week of Spencer avoiding him at all costs, having those sad eyes on him felt like a benediction, as he waited for Sam to continue.

“I ran away in Flagstaff when I was twelve, and my brother got in shit for it,” Sam said, running a hand across his lips, “But it was honestly the best vacation I ever had. Just me and this stray dog I found, hitchhiking across Route 66, staying at a seedy motel, living off pizza and Mr. Pibb the whole time. It was the first time I actually got to be the person I knew I was deep down, without my dad coming down on me, or Dean trying to get me to toe the line, just because he wanted some peace. It was the first time in my life I had my own space. It was eye opening.”

“I can imagine,” Spencer said, shifting in his seat, and after pulling a thoughtful face, asked, “What was his name?”

“Whose name?”

“Your dog.”

Sam laughed out loud at the blatant change of subject. “Bones,” he said, shrugging when Spencer actually cracked a smile and laughed with him.

“I forgot you were a Trekkie.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sam said, looking at Spencer incredulously, “‘I object to intellect without discipline; I object to power without constructive purpose.’ Episode, season, production number, speaker. Go.”

“The Squire of Gothos, season one, episode eighteen, production number 6149-18.” Spencer quirked a brow, but rattled off the details of the episode without batting an eye, “Spock.” Sam nodded, holding out an open palm as Spencer proved his point, but Spencer came back with a quote of his own, “’A lie is a very poor way to say hello.’ Same parameters, go.”

After a week of not speaking, it threw Sam off guard to have Spencer even acknowledging him, much less playfully challenging him, and it took him more effort than he cared to admit to dreg up the answer, stammering, “The City on the Edge of Forever, season one, episode twenty-eight, production number 6149-28, and the speaker is Edith Keeler.”

Wracking his brain was worth it, Sam decided, when Spencer all but threw his head back and laughed, the sound like music to his ears. God, he hadn’t heard Spencer laugh in years, and he’d almost forgotten how much he adored it. His heart thumped uncomfortably in his chest as he forced himself to look away, too enthralled by Spencer’s sunny smile than he should be, and not trusting himself not to stare. He’s not interested, Sam reminded himself, stilling his beating heart, not like that at least. He was just a co-worker, and an old friend.

“And now I remember why no one wanted to play against you on trivia nights,” Sam said, once he was certain he’d gotten his run-away brain under control, “I had to think about that one, you didn’t even flinch.”

“Eidetic memory,” Spencer reminded him, tapping his temple with one long finger, “that, and I was fourteen when we were at Stanford, I couldn’t get into the campus pub to play.”

“You weren’t missing much,” Sam assured, nudging him with his shoulder, “I went once, and left about halfway through in favour of reading H.D.’s Oread. Everyone was so drunk, and it was so loud I would rather leave and do homework… let that sink in.”

Spencer looked at him critically, “I don’t know if I would call Hilda Doolittle  _work_ , her poetry is fascinating.”

Sam hummed his agreement. “’Whirl up, sea,’” he said, closing his eyes as he tried to remember a poem he hadn’t read in ten years, “’Whirl your pointed pines. Splash your great pines on our rocks…” he paused, frowning, “shit, um—”

“’Hurl your green over us,’” Spencer finished for him, without breaking a sweat, “’Cover us with your pools of fir.’”

Impressed, Sam nodded appreciatively. “And that’s why you’re a twenty-four years old with two PhD’s,” he said, taking a mock bow, “This lowly attorney humbly yields to your superior intellect, doctor.”

“Three.”

“What?”

“I have three PhD’s,” Spencer said, correcting him in such a blasé fashion, he may as well have been commenting on the weather.

“In what?” Sam asked, sitting up straight and leaning closer, completely floored that this information was only reaching his ears now, “That’s amazing, Spencer!”

“It’s not—” but Spencer stopped himself, pursing his lips as though he were not too fond of Sam’s praise, and said, “Thank you. I have doctorates in engineering, chemistry and mathematics, but I've told you this.”

“I know, and I knew about the third one, I just didn’t think—” he raised his brows and asked, “Where did you find the time? You’ve been with the BAU for two years, and it hasn’t been that long since I last saw you. How did you manage to earn a doctorate _and_ train for the FBI?”

Spencer shrugged, “I’m an excellent multi-tasker?”

“You’re an excellent _something_ , that’s for sure.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know,” Sam chuckled, leaning his head back against the leather seat and suddenly very aware of the complete one-eighty his mood took. “Thanks, Spence,” he said, “for cheering me up. It’s good to be able to talk to you again.”

When Spencer immediately flushed and looked down at his hands, his mouth snapping shut and the smile slipping from his face, replaced with a look that could only be described as terror, Sam worried he’d overstepped. This was the first time they’d spoken since their argument, after all, maybe he’d made a mistake in making this personal. Maybe Spencer was just trying to be a good colleague and help a fellow agent who was clearly in need, and Sam had gone and made him uncomfortable.

An apology dangled at the tip of his tongue, but it wasn’t necessary, as Spencer murmured a soft, “You too.”

As Spencer settled in beside him, pulling a book from his bag diving into it, Sam went back to looking out the window, if only to calm his rapidly firing nerves. He steadied his breathing, willed his heart back to a normal pace, but he couldn’t help the thrill of excitement that rang through him at Spencer’s words. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, slouching in his seat as he closed his eyes, pretending to sleep, but he knew there was no chance in hell that was going to happen. All it took was one conversation, and one brief, sweet moment of acknowledgement from the man beside him, and every resolution he’d made flew out the window.

There was no way he could change how he felt about Spencer, but he could put a pin in it.

Even if he was pretty sure it’d kill him.


End file.
